sunday dusk along Vilier street men are in uniform, old ladies dressed like it is V.E day still. They look so proud and smart in their uniforms on the Strand, veterans and young men together. I imagine what they have had to do, what surviving conflict is.

Vivien Eliot being lifted by her husband to see the parade on the Mall after the First World War. Writing to T S Eliot’s mother how she was too ill to feel much joy that the war had ended, perpetual pains and bed days and flu.

I don’t wear a poppy for the first time ever for I found nowhere selling them. Maybe my poor sight missed the street poppy seller. I sat in Trafalgar Square by the horse skeleton on the fourth plinth only days after police horses were attacked nearby. Protesters against Capilaism with mass produced capitalist made masks and fireworks. Empty ideology and excuse for a fight.

Kettles Duns and whistles echoed. A bin cleaner rattled his broom handle in a metal bin like confused music. Tourists posed with him.

I watched African flags on the embassies and walk through tourists up Whitehall. Why was the Cenotaph placed in the middle of a road? The horses at Horse Gaurds don’t like the camera flashes or maybe they love it to break their cruel boredom stood in a box. 

It’s a short walk, brief break from the Suberbs on a dim Sunday. A homeless man catches his cardboard sheet blowing away. The government can give £23k. A year in benefits, maybe they should cut it a bit and give every homeless person a sleeping bag…or a room. I got the 211 bus, the longest bus you can get to read in peace. 

Dull Sunday’s…


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